


Safehouse

by CynKLBouns



Category: Watch Dogs (Video Game)
Genre: Wrench/Marcus if you squint and blur your eyes a bit, has zero actual point to it, pre-game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-18 22:20:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7332961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CynKLBouns/pseuds/CynKLBouns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not the first time someone comes to crash here. The apartment is small, settled into a tangle of back alleys (loud neighbors, noisy music, frequent faces, no one cares about a dark window). Perfect safe-house. You know it’s not smart (can’t help it), but everyone needs ground to go to. They have the decency to call first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safehouse

The noise isn’t quiet or tactful, and followed by vicious swearing that has you sitting up on the couch with a rough start (when did your hand start reaching for the taser under the cushion?). Lights don’t die in this room, not really- too many electronics flashing one thing or another. Small, blinking, cold blues and greens (comforting, familiar). The light rectangle of the door (not out of your sight but with enough cover) is blocked by a familiar figure lounging against the frame.

“The fuck…?” (Your voice is relieved more than venomous.)

It’s not the first time someone comes to crash here. The apartment is small, settled into a tangle of back alleys (loud neighbors, noisy music, frequent faces, no one cares about a dark window). Perfect safe-house. You know it’s not smart (can’t help it), but everyone needs ground to go to. They have the decency to call first.

You wait for the LED lights to inform you what the hell Wrench thinks he’s doing, scaring the shit out of you in the middle of the night. You wait for him to swagger inside, to theatrically drop onto the couch, at least for more swearing (you haven’t known each other long but you know his movements).

The darkness makes you fidget. Your hand inches towards the taser and your phone (could be wrong, why isn’t he moving?).

The figure slides out of the way of the light at the same time as you start getting up.

You swear under your breath, on your feet and across the room. He wasn’t lounging (staggered).

Some things you learn fast. How to loop someone’s arm over your shoulder and drag them away, for example. Studs dig into your skin (ignored), you’re shutting the door (quietly, no need to alert anyone else). You need light, no way around it (windows are covered anyway).

It’s a small and dirty light bulb from the era of the incendiary, on its last dregs. Not enough, you need your glasses (takes two attempts, fingers slippery from blood). Panic doesn’t touch that cold part of your mind, the one that tells you to focus (the reason you’ve survived this long).

Mask is already shoved up, away from the mouth (to let the blood out? To breathe?). It’s not emoting anything under the hood. Breaths uneven, pained. Too careful to be unconscious. Blood… blood… where is it coming from? You follow his hand under the jacket. Graze. Bullet? Knife? You don’t know. It’s deep.

“Did you just come here to ruin my night, asshole?” you grind out. “Ambulance only a phone-call away, you know. The hell am I supposed to do?”

“Fix it,” lips barely move. No blood coming up. You think that’s a good sign.

“Nuh-uh, this isn’t like the goddamn movies. You want to survive ‘till morning, you try not to bleed out before I get you to a hospital.”

You reach for your phone, but his hand closes on your wrist like a steel trap.

“Don’t be an idiot, Wrench. I’ll get you an ID, insurance, the whole deal. You’ll be out before they know better.”

“No hospitals.”

This is stupid and you know it. He’s not in a position to argue with you (grip is coming loose, no energy left to protest). You could haul him into your car and get him to the ER, and he could glare all he wanted from under that mask (until you take it away, the doctors can’t see it). His dislike of hospitals can very well wait until he’s not dying from blood loss or a ruptured organ (you ruthlessly push the panic down).

“What the fuck am I supposed to do with this?”

“You’re the smartass,” the voice isn’t synthesised, too quiet (tired, but level enough). “Figure it out.”

And so you’re ahead of the curve, if by a bit. Information is easy once you know where to look for it (once you have it all at your fingertips). Medical journals, survivalist blogs, paramedic resources, surgery records. You’ve done your homework, stocked a med-kit (too many shots fired, probability won’t bend over forever). You’re also smart enough to know you have equal chances of screwing it up more than actually fixing it. Your talents dictate the obvious route- a borrowed profile, one of many prepared beforehand, a hastily made-up story about a mugging, hand him over to professionals, leave before questions start. (His fucking mask. Is that worth his life?) It’s a betrayal, but it’s not your fault he’s being unreasonable (no).

You make the decision before you’re even done rationalising all the reasons it’s a stupid decision.

You swear and peel the jacket away. There’s a rag there (not his first time, either), pressed, soaked into a thick indigo. It used to be… something, you can’t tell anymore. A careful look under it (he hisses through his teeth). Grazing bullet wound, must have been at close range (black flecks break up the red. Reflexive? Who did he tangle with?)

“Hold still,” you instruct, getting to your feet. His lips open, forming a half-breathed ‘ha’. You’ve never lost that much blood before (too careful), but you can guess how washed out he must be feeling now. The lack of deadpan commentary is alarming (you’d give anything for a reassuring ‘^ ~’ right now).

Very quickly now, Marcus. The box (an old tin, biscuit logo) is sitting where you’d left it under the couch. There are some things you don’t have, can’t get quickly (blood bags, expiring drugs). You can do without most, but he has lost a lot of blood. He’s conscious, so it can’t be critical yet (pulse still beats strong under your fingers. You leave dark streaks on his throat).

You’re not an expert by a long shot, but you’re relatively certain the wound is too shallow to have damaged anything important (if it did, he’s fucked anyway now). There’s a massive bruise blossoming under his chin (concussion?). It’s better to believe its not as bad as it seems (hands shake less).

Jacket is in the way, but its already halfway down his arm (must have done it himself). You quickly finish the job, twisting it under him to the other side. The shirt is ruined anyway; you feel no guilt cutting out a chunk of it around the wound.

“What the hell am I doing…” you mutter absently, reaching for the sealed bottle of saline and a syringe (his knuckles go white as you steadily pour it through the bloody grove). The lightening blood settles on the plastic bag under his side. It’s not as bad when you can see it in the light (you worry anyway).

You have anesthetics, both local and general (rich hospital, tiny inconsistency in records). You’re not sure if you should use them (his fingers fist over your knee). Pain keeps him awake (is that a blessing?). He’s not complaining anymore, just greedily gasping for air before taking more deliberate deep breaths (doesn’t want to speak without the synthesizer, you realise. Stupid, but not your problem).

You shine your phone over the wound, washing away the new bleed with saline. The color looks even, beginning to clot if judging by the lazy ooze of blood. Too wide to close properly, it needs stitches. You’re not sure if that’s right, but you also know leaving it open is asking for an infection (and then it won’t matter what Wrench wants, it’s an ambulance for him and with far more questions than before).

“Want to tell me where you got messed up?” you ask, reaching for the set of surgical needles.

A limp wave of the hand. Silence. (Dumbass.)

“At least tell me if it was close-by,” you try again with resignation. You like this safe-house. It’s far more deserving of the title than your last one. “You didn’t drag yourself here from wherever on half a hope I’d be around, right? You’d have called then.”

“It’s Friday night,” he mutters quietly, “Where else would you be?”

A small laugh escapes you (automatic, but your hands are steady now). “It’s actually Saturday morning now.”

The stitch isn’t even, but it holds (skin is less fragile than fabric).

“My point stands.”

It’s not as if your social life is non-existent, but your paranoia holds you back. Can’t wander off with pretty drunk strangers, can’t keep your eyes off your drink, can’t let go of your phone. (It’s not just yourself you’re protecting.)

“Your tattoo is ruined, by the way,” you inform him (trying to keep your voice casual, as if there isn’t an exhausted tremble in it).

“Which one?” he takes an interest suddenly, head rolling a few degrees across the floor (you should get him up).

“Uh… looks like a nyan-cat shitting ones and zeroes. Now missing a head.”

“If it looks like a headless duck,” he grumbles in response (his voice doesn’t raise above a voiceless whisper).

There’s a sudden, inexplicable urge to find some Hello Kitty band-aids for this jackass (it’s cliché, you don’t have any, and he’d probably like them anyway. You still feel better). You finish dressing the wound with a large square of gauze and a bandage that you wrap around the abdomen (just in case).

“Breathing okay?” you ask, and don’t get a response. “Wrench?”

“Never better,” he finally responds after a long moment (asshole).

There’s something off about his breaths, as if its getting stuck on a deep cough that he has no energy to expel. You lean down, unceremoniously pressing an ear to his chest.

“Too soon for cuddling, at least buy me dinner first.” (Not as amused as he’d like to sound.)

“Shut the fuck up.” (You’re not blushing.)

The heartbeat is slow and sluggish (too damn quiet). You don’t like the way the way the ribcage stutters on every intake of breath (let it just be pain).

“I’m gonna move you up, alright?”

“Huh?” he sounds too out of it to be of any help, but his frame isn’t that heavy. Long and frustratingly limp, but the couch is only a pace away anyway (place isn’t that big). The mask is still settled awkwardly on the end of his nose, but you don’t touch it (don’t even think to). You’re pretty sure he’s passed out by the time you’re done shoving all his limbs within the perimeter of the cushions. You don't own any blankets, so you dump both the jackets over him.

Your hands are still sticky, and you wrinkle your nose before going to wash them in the bathroom (his hands are bloody too, but you ignore that). It made it up to your elbows, dark stains on your shirt and sweatpants. A glance into the dusty mirror and it’s also on your face, where you swiped at your forehead, a splatter on your chin (the pressure from the syringe). You get yourself in order, throw away your shirt and grab another (your hands are shaking, it takes two tries to get into the collar opening).

For the life of you, you can’t remember the correct usage for morphine, and you’re too exhausted to go looking. The simplest thing to do is leave it on the table beside the couch, and let Wrench figure it out himself whenever he wakes up. Waiting up makes no sense, so you lock the door, shove a chair under the handle, rearm the trap (he must have disarmed it from the other side. Could have just knocked). It’s small and non-lethal, but enough to raise noise and halt intruders for a moment. There’s an old bed in the apartment, but with the dampness, sticking springs, and bugs, you’re better off on the floor (keeping an eye on him).

His breathing is uneven and slightly hissing in the dark (at least you can hear it). You don’t sleep so much as doze lightly with your hands behind your head and your back slowly growing numb.

It’s early morning when you wake Wrench up again (you don’t know what you’ll do if he doesn’t wake). He shows signs of life, though, batting away you and murmuring something indignant. You roll your eyes, and check on the dressings. There’s a bit of bleed, so you quickly change it, making sure the stitches are fine.

“You make a good nurse.” (Unoriginal. He must still be feeling it.)

“Wrench, seriously, fuck you. You want me dope you or…?”

“Depends. Whatcha got?”

“Just morphine. Some aspirin if you ask nicely.”

“Fuck that, gimme.”

You shake your head, and go grab some water (the glazed window by the door is getting lighter with the sunrise). When you get back, he’s making attempts to sit up, or at least drag himself into a more dignified position (failing badly, arms shake violently and give no support).

“Stay down for once, will you?” you sigh. “You’ll ruin all my hard work.” (You’re scared that if he shifts, something else will break.)

He listens, or perhaps just runs out of energy (blood-loss making itself known). You’re careful with the morphine, using your pocket knife of half the dosage before helping Wrench down it (the swallow is hard, he coughs on the mouthful of water).

“I’ll just go back to passing out,” he says, voice quietening (you don’t protest). “Thanks, man.”

You just snort (this is still stupid).

There’s no food in this place- you haven’t been here for a full week, crashing on the other side of the city. You don’t want to leave him alone, doped up and injured. On the other hand, you’ve got eyes on the street and the building, and the corner convenience store isn’t far.

You ring Sitara on your way out the door.

“What’s up?”

“You know what Wrench was up to last night?”

“What am I, his keeper? He just said he had somewhere to be. Why, what happened?” (Concern in her voice, words come out fast.) “Where is he?”

“Currently out cold on my couch,” you hold the phone with your shoulder as you lock and arm the traps again. “With a bullet wound that could’ve been a lot worse. Dumbass didn’t let me take him to a hospital.”

“He’s fine now, though?”

“I guess. I mean, I hope so. I patched him up the best I could, but doc should take a look at him anyway.” (An old white man with cold eyes and a clear head. Takes bribes and doesn’t ask who shot whom.)

“Doc’s out of town, some conference or something. You need anything?”

“Nah, worst is over, I think. Tell Josh to look into it, though, before someone breaks down my door.” You eye the trail of dark droplets leading to your door and sigh with resignation.

“Sure thing. Hey, there’s this nurse that owes me a favor, I’ll ask her to come by?”

You think about it. Lots of people owe Dedsec favors (comes with the territory of vigilantism), but that doesn’t mean they’re loyal or safe (stitches aren’t infected, he woke up and seemed cohesive. Worth risking it for peace of mind?).

“Thanks, sister.”

You’re gonna need a new safe house after this (shame, you liked this one.)

(Next one should have a spare bed. And blood packs.)

 


End file.
